Mein
by Radio Interference
Summary: You and I are eternal.


There's bodies everywhere. All of them are alive.

A single platform, that was all. No extra commodities- A platform, raised by a treelike structure, painted matte black (because it makes the blood show better. Violence sells), surrounded only by 76,326 screaming

Fans.

Not fans, but voyeurs. Some root for a particular person, but they're nothing short of spectators. But call them fans.

There's actually 76,332 seats, but these are in the nosebleeds, and these fans have either sought out shelter or just gave up and decided to watch it from home.

Watching Super Smash Brothers.

40 men, women, and indescribable monsters and creatures stood on this platform. But neither the structure nor the platform itself seemed to cower under the collective weight. Yet, all forty of these men, women, and creatures stood.

Waiting.

And as if by magic, two floating gloves- massive gloves- no, HANDS, appear out of the sky. The crowd goes crazy at this cheap trick. One of them moves through the air like cream, soft, flowing, and surreal. The second hand is erratic, violent, and nearly epileptic in it's movements. Nearly like a seizure.

Despite this, a voice booms out- from the general direction of these two hands. The viewers of this spectacle cannot fathom this, but the noise appears to be coming from the more gentle-looking one. And they listen to it.

It is a controlling voice, soothing, and yet firm. Intricate and blunt at once. Like a parent instructing a toddler that the stove is very bad and if you touch it you will die; that kind of voice. This hand like creature lays the tone on thick. Nearly mesmerizing.

"Welcome," it pauses. Fingers flexing, tendrils of bright lightning-blue energy sparkling from it's fingertips. Like it is considering just frying the entire place and leaving. It does nothing of the sort.

"To a spectacle like no other. I do not consider this as a blood sport," the words 'blood sport' rolling off of his, or possibly her, mouth in disgust, "I consider it as a sacrifice. As I mean this, I mean this as… These forty men and women in front of you, doing it because they simply _love _to do it." He/she/it insists the last part with conviction. Trying to get the crowd on his side. It works; mild applause is heard throughout the arena.

"I do not wish to bore you with bumbling speeches, and I will not. But I will quote a line. Hopefully, it will not bore you too much," the hand continues. Speaking English like a born and bread man of the land.

"Life in paradise became lonely and tedious for the Gods, for they had no one to keep them company. So, in their infinite wisdom, the Gods made the creatures a deal that could guarantee the creatures entry into paradise. In a message delivered by one of the demigods, the proposition was that prices for eternal happiness were only two conditions: one, the demigods were to live in paradise on a more permanent basis, and two, the creatures would become mortal."

The deal was made, and it has been that way. Whenever the Gods need someone to talk to, they send a demigod to bring an individual to paradise, for all eternity…"

He stops, and then the second hand, the one that has been quiet for this whole debacle while just spazzing along, screeches chaotically.

"ARE YOU THAT MORTAL?!" He yells, in a preachy sort of way, to the 40 littered across the platform. Some nod, some just stand there, and some of them get into it, cheering and yelling too.

The crowd is fucking insane now. The blood is coming soon. They know it.

"Then let Super Smash Brothers begin!" Exclaims the first hand. The crowd loses it. And just like that, forty men, women, and monsters and creatures are fighting all across the platform.

Pull the trigger.

The world seems to move faster.

We move in on this modern gladiator show. Like a violent movie, a snuff film, except viewed with millions of people. In one scene, the plumber named Mario beats down violently on the swordsman Link with what appears to be a shell. A turtle shell.

In another, Solid Snake is choking Samus. Kirby has swallowed Yoshi whole. Donkey Kong, in the process of punching Marth's face in, is interrupted violently by Peach, who cracks the ape's skull open with a baseball bat. Cerebrospinal fluid spills and splashes onto the ground, while DK's brain swells from trauma.

Despite all this, the crowd eats it up. They scream for more. More, more violence, more killing, more death, they all say.

Time passes, with the violence advocated. Blood sport?

Well, blood, bodily fluid, bones and other things litter the ground so much; They're so common it's easy to see one of the fighters slipping and falling through the shit. But the fighting is nonstop, and the "fans" have come and gotten what they came for.

Torture porn. A rapid overflow of blood. A snuff fil- no, a live snuff orchestra. Reaching it's climax.

Four out of forty remain. A laughable amount, yes. Meanwhile, the other thirty-six lay across the stage. Dead. Or dying. They are unceremoniously swept off of the platform into the depths below. The high fall seems to make the crowd even more rowdy. Foodstuffs and empty bottles start to fly, and one strikes one of the contestants- the one youth, named Ike- and the boy falls to the ground. Just like that.

Four? Make that three.

Ten minutes later, two.

There can only be one.

The crowd roars as the last body drops, but then the screaming abruptly stops. Everything stops. The champion falls to the ground, a shell of his former self.

A shell.

One of the hands scoop up the shell. The shell. Nothing is there.

It is a figure. Nothing more. Admittedly, the thought of this little, little....thing causing all this is laughable. But it has been.

Nothing but chess pieces.

The hand moves through a porcelein land, movements, while far less unpredictable than it's doppelganger, are jumpy. Excited, almost.

* * *

"This is him?"

A cloaked figure. Maybe 5'6". But then again, no one is here to make guesses. Anyone could be any size.

"Yes," and there's that voice again. The soothing voice. The easy voice. The controlling one.

"Show." The first voice says again. Coming from the cloaked figure. The voice could easily be male, but easily female as well. A middle-of-the-road voice.

The hand does. It promptly falters and crashes to the floor; a material not concrete, not hardwood, but something differnet.

The cloakman/woman reaches out from the dark and takes the figure. Says few words.

"You and I are eternal."

The cloaked figure is you.

* * *

**Finish!**

**The winner is.... I-**

* * *

There's bodies everywhere. None of them are alive.

* * *

The lines about the Gods and Demigods are pretty much credit to Sean Catlett. I'm simply a fag who read his stories and the lines burned in my head.

This work infringes works by Nintendo, Sega, and the respecting parties also involved with Smash Brothers. I hope you enjoyed this story, but fully understand if you did not.

That all being said, The End.


End file.
